


The Sign of the First

by the_noble_bachelorette84



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Smut, Virgin Sherlock, watson wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:13:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1446319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_noble_bachelorette84/pseuds/the_noble_bachelorette84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is not dealing with this day well, especially after his most recent deduction, and has decided to leave the party, as sad as Mrs. Hudson will find it. That is, until his dear friend Molly intervenes with a sympathetic ear and a bottle of excellent whiskey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sign of the First

Sherlock wasn’t used to this. This kind of emotion. John had been his best friend for several years now, even while he was away. His only best friend ever. If he was being honest, the only true friend he’d had in his life. Not that he’d ever placed much stock in the idea of such a confidant. He had always valued intelligence and cleverness that was close to his level. A quality sadly lacking in most of the humans with whom he’d been in contact, ever since boyhood. He had had enough time while he was taking down Moriarty’s crime web to process this emotion, and could only classify it as love. Similar love that he’d always had for Mycroft, at least deep down somewhere. He was his brother, after all, and the only person who’d ever challenged him intellectually until his adulthood. Until Moriarty. His love for John was somehow less complicated that his love for Mycroft. Especially after he’d “returned from the dead.” It had been apparent to him that John’s love for him was unconditional. After all, it would have to be. Sherlock had hurt John by excluding him from his deception, and in the following weeks, Sherlock had not presented to be an easy man to forgive. He’d continued to be an arrogant, acerbic arse hole, who’d continued to make a mockery of his perceived betrayal. 

He felt rather like people probably do when they own pets. They don’t seem to mind the idiotic behavior of their dog. They just continue petting and caring for the animal. A seemingly symbiotic relationship, seeing that the animal cares not how many times he is hit with the newspaper or put out in the cold after defiling the carpets with sick or excrement. Good old Rover forgives the punishment, and still cuddles with you by the fire on cold nights. He’d better not confide this comparison to his best friend, however. He undoubtedly would have some less than kind words to say about it. Running to tell Mary, “That self-righteous wanker compared me to a Golden Retriever!” Yes, best not. 

But back to the point at hand. He was losing John. It had never been more apparent than tonight. Mary was a lovely person, if he felt he could call anyone lovely. She was clever. Much more so than any of the other women John had been involved with since he’d known him. Some aspects of her personality still eluded Sherlock. She was still a bit of an enigma. He felt that there was some part of herself that she wasn’t sharing with the rest of humanity, or at least not with him. Although sometimes, human was not a word that could be used to describe the detective. 

Mary was good to Sherlock, and seemed to understand his friendship with John better than the men did. Lay people would refer to this as some sort of female intuition, but he couldn’t say that he’d ever proven this idea to be legitimate. John had reassured him, on numerous occasions, that his marriage to Mary would not prevent them from solving cases and going on adventures together. Mary had done the same, in private. But he was certain that having a child would change them much more than Mrs. Hudson claimed that marriage would. Paternal instincts were a definite anthropological characteristic evolved in humans to continue the species, and more recently, into the continuing of one’s own bloodline or “family name.” Would John be able to leave home and run, guns blazing, into the fray of the game when he had a family at home? Would he risk his life when another life relied on him so much? This was the question. Could a tiny little fetus be the end of the partnership of Holmes and Watson? And in turn, the friendship of Sherlock and John? 

He pondered all this in the space of the walk from the hall to his hotel room, during which, he was approached by a few female party-goers asking him to make deductions about their pants. One particularly intoxicated blonde had slurred “Good luck making ‘ductions ‘bout my knickers, mate! I’m not wearin’ any!” He looked her up and down, leaned into her personal space, and said, “I know. I also know that you have a husband at home, a postal worker, who didn’t come with you tonight because he has a touch of influenza. Best get a cab home and look after him! One of these girls could probably lend you their phone since the battery’s been dead on yours for about two hours.” He turned away grinning. He knew the effect he had on women, especially of a certain type, and although he couldn’t fathom why, he quite enjoyed it when it worked to his advantage. It had always done with Molly Hooper. 

Molly. He thought her name as he turned his door key. Molly had been an important part of his life since she began working at Bart’s. He preferred her immensely to Mr. McCarthy, the previous ME. His rates for using the facilities were astronomical, and he never let Sherlock bring his riding crop! She had immediately agreed to allow him the use of her lab and mortuary free of charge-he hadn’t bothered to quote the rates he had been paying because he could tell from her dilated pupils and quickening heart-rate at their first meeting that she found him sexually attractive-and maybe that was taking a bit of advantage, but it’s not as though he was causing her pain or injury. And after all, he’d gotten to know and like her on a personal level and she’d definitely become more comfortable around him as they got to know each other better. She was most helpful to him in solving many of his cases, or at least, her facility and title had been, and she herself had been instrumental in the suicide he had faked in order to go under cover and dissolve Moriarty’s crime ring. He had always taken her for granted. Always counted on her to be there, skipping meals and breaking rules for his cases. For him. The day he took her along to assist him in his work had been a recompense for all she’d done for him. She deserved more. More, it seemed, than he was capable of giving to her. He packed his luggage back away, diligently, deciding not to stay here and think about how much his life was about to change. He needed to work. To occupy his mind with crime and experiments. The sycophancy of this day had drained him. The disturbance of the homeostasis of his existence made him anxious, and he’d somehow forgotten his cigarettes. Or more likely, one of his so-called friends had nicked them. As he was zipping his suitcase, he heard a soft knock on the door. He walked over and opened it to a pair of big brown eyes, and a rather ridiculous hair bow.

*****

Molly saw Sherlock leave the dance. She was all too familiar with the look in his eye. His pain was as clearly defined as his gorgeous cheekbones. Stop it, Molly. You’re with Tom now! He’s lovely! He appreciates and respects you! He doesn’t have sociopathic tendencies. He’s a fantastic lover! Well, above average. Well, at least she’s getting it on a regular basis! Unlike the time she spent just waiting for Sherlock to notice her. Could it have really been YEARS? She did the math, she was good at math, and concluded that years would definitely and depressingly be the right increment to use. Tom was terrific. She loved his dog. She loved his floppy hair. She loved the way he dressed his long lanky frame with clothes that accentuated his gorgeous cheek—oh god. What had she done? She stood back from Tom a bit, standing still, and just looked him over. There were obvious differences, of course, but no more different than two cookies that you ice a different way! She had been attracted to Tom based on his resemblance to that knob of a consulting detective! She was thick! How could she just be noticing this! They’d been dating for months! One night when they were really drunk she made him…do things to her with a deerstalker on…what indeed, had she done!? She shook herself out of her reverie, thanking God for hard liquor and its ability to erase shameful memories from the minds of tolerant boyfriends.  
“Are you alright?” Tom asked, concernedly.  
She met his confused gaze with her best forced smile and said “I’m fine!” Although, she couldn’t remember the last time she was this NOT fine!  
“Do you wanna get outta here?” Tom asked  
“Yeah, actually, I do! I want to go check on Sherlock. He looked a bit off, and I wanna make sure he’s alright.” Molly said, looking the way Sherlock had gone.  
Tom hung his head in disappointment, a feeling that was represented in great measure in his next statement.  
“Ya know, I’m your boyfriend, Molly. I’m here for you always. I never ask questions, even when it comes to your…kinks--”  
That brought Molly around! “My WHAT!?” he grabbed her hand and pulled her off the dance floor into a quiet corner of the hall.  
“You know perfectly well what I mean! I…did things to you while wearing a bloody deerstalker! A DEERSTALKER, Molly! What is that supposed to make me think!? I don’t care whether you were drunk or not, you asked me to do that because you wanted it to be the consulting wanker between your legs! Don’t deny it!”  
Molly was a bit dumbstruck, but found her composure. “Tom, I didn’t know you remembered…you never said…”  
“Well, no, I wouldn’t do, would I? I understand role-playing. But have you any idea how emasculating it is to be asked to pretend to be someone who actually exists? Someone who is a real person; not fictional? Someone your girlfriend actually knows!? A friend of hers? No, you couldn’t possibly know. Molly, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend anymore. You have to stop pretending I’m your first choice. If you want to check on Sherlock, go. Here’s a fiver for a taxi home, if you end up needing it. I can’t stand to be here any longer.”  
He handed her the £5 note, kissed her forehead and said, “I hope you’ll be happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve to be with the man you love most. I just hope he deserves you!” and he strode away, shoulders hung, hands pocketed.  
She sat on the nearby bench for a moment. She shed a single tear for leading Tom on, however unintentionally. She really did like him. He was a kind person. He deserved someone who really appreciated and loved him for all his good qualities! He shouldn’t be her own second choice because he was missing a few flaws. Well, really, he was only missing the one flaw. He was missing the identity of Sherlock Holmes. The most flawed and beautiful and special person she’d ever met.  
And she knew that right now, he was hurting. He was sad. And he needed her. What good was she if she couldn’t help Sherlock, yet again, in personal crisis?  
She walked up to the bar and asked for a bottle of whiskey. She had her ups and downs with the spirit, but she had it on good authority that it was like a truth serum for the floppy-haired idiot she was attempting to comfort. The bartender handed her the bottle and she grabbed two rocks glasses from the counter. She walked purposefully through the hall, into the lobby and up the stairs. She’d passed a cluster of young women whom she thought were really too old to be giggling how they were. She couldn’t make anything out of what they were saying but for a few words that she thought were “deduce ME anytime” and grinned a bit to herself. She’d been Sherlocked, for certain. She also overheard a bit of one of the girls’ phone conversation “Yes, Dougie, I’m calling a cab from Susan’s phone. I’ve had a bit too much and my phone’s toast. Do you need me to bring you anything? I can stop by the store and get you a sports drink. I don’t want you getting dehydrated!” Wonder what her story was. What a love she must have with her “Dougie” to want to take care of him while he’s sick…although, she thought if it were her relationship, she would have skipped the wedding to care for him. That was her nature. She listened for the familiar sound that she knew Sherlock would be making. The manic sound of a man trying to work out something beyond his ken. She’d heard him like this so many times. He didn’t know she had done. It was likely that he didn’t even know he was making a sound. She had a little giggle before knocking softly on the door. She got a small butterfly in her chest as she heard him pad closer. The door swung open revealing his tall slender frame and she didn’t know how she kept her composure, staring up at his long, angular face, curly, chocolate locks and, piercing eyes the colour of the sea. How many times had she fantasized about straddling that slim body? Caressing the creamy, undoubtedly soft skin of his cheeks? Running her fingers through that hair? Gazing into those unfathomable eyes as they reached their limits? Stop it, Molly, for God’s sake! You’re not here to rip his clothes off! And at any rate, he was already halfway to naked anyway. His jacket and waistcoat abandoned, shirt untucked, tie draped around his neck, the top few buttons open to reveal than sinful sternoclavicular notch, belt undone and still in his trousers. His feet were bare, and his toes fidgeted anxiously with the carpet below them. She’d seen him at what she’d thought at the time was his worst. She’d seen him seemingly disheveled. But she thought, at this moment, with pain in his eyes, and a quiet mania emanating from his person, so utterly vulnerable and fragile, that he’d never looked more beautiful. Come on, Hooper, you’re here as a friend! Not a sexual companion! Unless that’s what he needs! *Stop getting your hopes up, woman! This is Sherlock!*  
Her internal struggle was kept secret from the surface. “Fancy a nightcap?”

Fancy a nightcap? He never would understand some of these pleasantries people insisted on observing! The archaic nature of the “night cap” wasn’t something he’d expect of Molly. She was a modern woman. This led him to the conclusion that she was just saying whatever came to mind out of nervousness or apprehension. He decided to let any mockery of the statement fall by the wayside. She deserved that much of him, at the very least, especially judging from the concern on her face. It was, for some reason, for him. “Hello, Molly. Yes, I suppose. Uh, come in.” He made way for her, frowning slightly as he closed the door. He turned to watch her place the glasses she was carrying on the small desk by the window at the other end of the room. She removed the lid, making that distinctive cracking sound. The sound that, for some reason, although they were totally different sounds, reminded Sherlock of breaking bones. She sat the lid aside and poured about two fingers of dark amber liquid into each tumbler. She picked them up again and walked back toward him. She held out the glass, and he took it from her. She raised her own glass to his in a toast, saying “To friendship?” He clinked, somewhat reluctantly, nodded, and downed about half of the whiskey. He grinned widely at the sting of the drink. “Ahh, Talisker?” Molly shook her head, and, having downed the entire contents of her glass, exhaled deeply and said “Glenn Livett.” Sherlock sniffed the contents remaining in his glass and asked “Are you certain?” Molly stepped back toward the desk and turned the bottle so that he could read the label for himself. “I can’t imagine a scenario in which one would replace the contents of a whiskey bottle with the contents of another whiskey bottle. Plus, it was sealed.” Sherlock nodded a concession in her direction and emptied the tumbler into his mouth. Another grimace at the welcome burn. “So Sherlock. Do you want to talk about it?” Molly asked, refilling their glasses with the same amount as before. Sherlock frowned in confusion.  
Molly liked this face. She liked being the one who confused the man who was typically unconfuseable.  
“What do you mean?” How could she always tell when he was cross? His biggest and most perplexing unsolved mystery.  
“Honestly Sherlock, I know your face! I know when you’re happy and I know when you’re just putting on a brave face! You know damn well you can trust me with anything, so spill your guts. What has you looking like someone’s soiled your favorite coat?”  
They took equal sips out of their glasses and smacked their lips at the same time. They looked at each other, smiled, and then looked at their glasses until Sherlock sighed “Oh, fine, I might as well! But your discretion is paramount, Molly, do you understand?” Molly nodded vehemently. Sherlock proceeded. “John and Mary are going to have a child.” Molly coughed, surprised at the news, turning her head to cough again in her arm. Sherlock rolled his eyes when she wasn’t looking. Why was he the only one graced with the powers of observation?  
“You’re joking!” she gasped. “Unfortunately not, I’m afraid. All the signs were there. She just needs the confirmation of a professional. Well, a MEDICAL professional.” He downed the rest of his second glass in one large gulp and sat it on the television. Molly quietly picked it up and put a little extra whiskey in his glass, downed her own, and gave herself the same. She contemplated this information for a moment or two and then presented her findings. “So, you’re worried that this new addition to the Watson family will create further distance between you and John than just his marriage will have done?” He whipped his head up, tossing his curls back. Her deduction had startled him. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who could observe and deduce. Molly had her own skill set that wasn’t so different from his own. Her capacity to understand human emotion was something that had always evaded Sherlock. Not that he’d ever tried too hard. People only mocked and chided and sneered at him for being clever. Why should he try to understand them when they would never reciprocate that understanding? It was impossible to understand Sherlock Holmes. Although, maybe not for Molly Hooper. “Well…yes…yes, Molly.” He picked up his refilled glass, took a long drink, and hung his head, contemplating the lovely color of the whiskey. She sat her own glass down, walked towards him, and removed the glass from his hand. She wrapped her arms around his solid, slender torso resting her hands on his shoulder blades and her head on his chest. It took him a moment to process the comfort she was attempting to give him. The kind of comfort to which he was most unaccustomed, and of which he’d received an exorbitant amount today. By his normal standards, anyway. Eventually, and somewhat tensely, he rested his arms around her back and shoulders. He noticed the softness of her skin. It was lovely. He inclined his head down a bit to examine the color and texture of it, but was distracted by the scent of her hair. It was the scent of strawberries and honey. But there was something else. A headier perfume than any he’d smelled on her before. She’d tried the lot of them, and it was upon her that he based a lot of his research for his paper on ladies fragrances. He thought that this was not a scent purchased at a counter at a department store or ordered online at a cut rate. No, this, he thought, was Molly’s natural scent. The scent she exuded when she was in a certain mood. Pheromones. She was giving off pheromones. And he was enjoying it. He’d never thought of himself as a sexual being. Never desired a woman other than The Woman, and he didn’t want to be inside her body as much as her mind. But here, today, standing entwined with Molly Hooper, he felt desire in hitherto uncharted parts of his mind and body. He’d felt the release of self-gratification, though it wasn’t something he made a habit of doing. He didn’t need it the way other men needed it. But the closeness of Molly had made his blood pump that much faster and flow to his least used appendage. He slowly removed himself from Molly’s embrace, but didn’t completely break contact. He looked into her eyes, hoping that, once again, she would be able to decipher his intent from his face and tone. “Molly, I’ve taken you for granted. I’ve dismissed you, and been utterly cruel to you at times. I’ve never truly apologized for any of it.”  
“’s okay. I know you don’t really mean those horrible things you say.”  
“But I used to. I did. Before I truly knew you. Before I knew your heart, and the depths of its compassion, and understanding, and charity. I would not be where I am today were it not for you. Thank you for all you’ve done. And I’m so very sorry for my frankly destructive behavior toward you!” He caressed her cheek with his long, slender fingers and warm palm, and she leaned into the embrace, laying her own smaller and polished hand over his. She couldn’t prevent the small grin from manifesting on her face. She whispered his name, almost prayerfully. “I’m so pleased that you’ve got Tom in your life now. He’s a good bloke. He’s good for you.” He said with no real conviction, the lack of which Molly heard as if he were screaming with disapproval. She looked down, fidgeting with the ring she wore on her left ring finger. It hadn’t occurred to her to remove it until now. “Tom’s gone. He left. We’re…we’re over, Sherlock.” There was mostly concern on his face, but also, a hint of smugness. He knew this, and was glad Molly’s gaze was still fixed on her modest yet elegant engagement ring. The detective was seldom this lost. Utterly lost. What was he thinking? All of his thoughts were jumbled together. What words did he use? All he could see in his mind palace were images of the young medical examiner’s body entangled with his own. Writhing on the bed of the room they were in, and the floor, and the shower…and every surface of 221B…and in the lab and mortuary of Bart’s…come on, Sherlock! That’s a bit sick, even for you. But how could he help the images in his head? He could, with great difficulty, prevent what came off of his sharp tongue, but how can one control a fantasy? He managed the partial phrase, “Well, that…that’s too…I’m s—“ and then he broke the nonsensical stream of words by lifting her face up by the chin, and gazing into her dark brown eyes. He searched there for fear, or chastisement, or disgust, but all he saw was desire, need, and want. He could hear it in the quickening of her breath; feel it on her throbbing skin. He dropped his gaze to her moist, inviting lips, slightly parted with mild surprise. He leaned into her slowly, almost painfully.  
Can’t he do this a little faster! I’ve only waited years for this!? He’s taking his sweet ass time, for God’s sake! Molly’s mind was racing with the prospect of what was to come! She’d dreamed, and fantasized about this moment, this night, from the day she’d met this walking, breathing enigma! She waited not so patiently for him to close the distance between them.  
He placed his closed lips carefully on hers, moving his hand around under her ponytail at the base of her skull holding her firmly against him. His other hand found the slender curvature of her waist.  
Molly could no longer contain her exuberance! She threw her arms around Sherlock’s neck and ran her fingers through his hair. Oh God, that hair! How could it have been any softer than she imagined? She’d thought maybe silk, but no. it was so much softer than that. It was positively indescribably soft. Impossibly so.  
The hands in Sherlock’s hair made him weak. Apparently, this was something he enjoyed although the only time anyone else touched his hair was when it was being trimmed. He groaned with approval as she worked her fingernails over his scalp and around the follicles. He felt extra blood flowing to his pelvic region making his trousers just a little too tight. He felt Molly press her whole body into his. That certainly didn’t decrease the need he felt. He reluctantly broke this kiss, both of them a little out of breath, and rested his forehead on hers. “Molly, I…there are things that I’ve done. I’ve done terrible things and even killed a few people. Killed many by my word, if not my own hand. But I—“  
“Shh, Sherlock, you don’t need to explain your actions to me. I know why you did those things. And I think more of you for it, not less!” she comforted him caressing the soft pale skin of the masterpiece of his face with both of her dainty hands. Hands that have seen death, even if they had never caused it.  
“No, Molly, that’s not what I’m trying to say. What I’m trying to say is that I’ve done many things, but there are certain acts of human nature that are…quite foreign to me…do you understand?”  
Molly did not consider herself to be foul-mouthed, but the voice in her head was saying nothing but “HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!! SHERLOCK’S A FUCKING VIRGIN!” She’d always wondered how he made love. Wondered how many women had found their way into his bed. Wondered what he liked. She never thought, that should this miracle present itself, it would present with it a Sherlock that was a clean sexual slate. Surely this was some poorly timed joke. She knew he was capable of that level of cruelty, but she knew him as well as anyone, if not better, and this did not seem disingenuous. “Sherlock,” she said calmly. Maybe too calmly “do you mean to say that you’ve never…been with a woman? Intimately?”  
He stopped short with this question, thinking. “I don’t suppose bathtimes as a child count?”  
“God, no, dear! You’re messed up, but not on that level. You’d be putting the bodies in the morgue rather than helping to bring them justice if those times counted!”  
“Right, then no, I have not been intimate with a woman. Or a man, for that matter! I know what people are like about me and John. It’s never made me any difference what normal people think, but it appears to matter to him, and now it matters to me what YOU think, so to reiterate, not gay.”  
She had known this, of course. Or at least was rather sure. He had a closeness with John that was impossible to miss, but there was clearly nothing romantic there. Still, Molly did a tiny internal happy dance at the statement. Sherlock Holmes didn’t want Molly Hooper to think he was gay! “What do you need from me? Do you need…instruction…in some way?” How weird did THAT feel!? Offering to instruct Sherlock Holmes in the ways of carnal knowledge! She found it strangely hot!  
“No need, I think. I have conducted some experiments with John’s laptop when excruciatingly bored. All in the name of science and research, of course.” He looked at her with his sidelong glance, continuing with an attempt to describe exactly what he saw. Molly stopped him immediately, but wished it had been sooner. She didn’t want to think of John looking at the images that Sherlock was describing.  
“Alright, I think that’s enough. Sounds like you’ve got the basic…mechanics of it, so we’ll just go over the finer points.” Molly continued the unbuttoning of his tuxedo shirt. She removed the tie and the belt and tossed them on a nearby chair with some chagrin. She had plans for those that her poor innocent little Sherlock was not ready for. Someday, she mused. She continued by slipping the shirt from his muscular shoulders revealing the vest he wore underneath still tucked into his trousers. She looked at him with a sly smile on her face. “You’re so good at observation. Let’s test your skills. I’m going to do some things that I would enjoy you doing to me, and then, when I’m done, you repeat them…on me.” His eyes widened with apprehension, but also excitement. “And if for some reason you don’t enjoy what I’m doing, tell me.” He nodded. She grabbed the fabric of his undershirt and pulled it from beneath his trousers and over his head. What was underneath the shirt surprised Molly. She hadn’t expected such a muscular and firm physique. She ran her hands along the planes of his chest and abdomen, feeling every ripple made by his pecs and abs. She planted light kisses all over his pec, ending at his erect nipple. She took it into her mouth and Sherlock gasped. She circled it with her tongue, nipping very, very lightly which garnered a few more moans. She repeated the action on his other side with the same results. She planted kisses down his abdomen to his belly button. She undid his trousers and slid them slowly off of his hips. That would be a little payback for making her wait for her kiss! She wasn’t prepared for the sight that was revealed. He was wearing black silk boxers. There was no design, no texture, just plain black silk boxers. What was he doing to her? Surely he had to know what these pants would do to her! But then, she had to remind herself that this was Sherlock. Oblivious to the world and people around him in a manner other than it behooves him to be for a case. She looked up at him, eyebrows raised. He put on his best, some would say scariest, smile and winked at her. That little shit! She stood up and pushed him onto the bed behind him.  
“You bastard! You know exactly what you’re doing!” she exclaimed playfully climbing over him, tickling him as she went. “Haha, no, stop it!” He pleaded. “Really, I was just being cheeky! Honestly! Assuming you forgive me, you’ll be my first!” “Oh I’ll forgive you on one condition. If you pass the observation test!” Sherlock furrowed his brow, scrunching the very top of his nose. “Oh, I think you’ll be pleased with my grade.” It was so fast, Molly wasn’t sure how it happened, but suddenly, she was on her back with Sherlock on top of her. There was fire in his eyes behind the cool water. His gaze was so intense that she felt the burn deep in her belly. His lips met hers with urgency. It almost hurt, but not so much that she could justify pushing him away. She parted her lips to give him access to her mouth, and he took immediate and full advantage of it. His lips were every bit as soft as they looked. Smooth and luscious against hers.  
He grabbed her wrists and held them beside her head as he moved his lips to her ear, down her jaw, and over her neck, lavishing her skin with licks, kisses, and little nibbles. He went back to her mouth for few moments before treating the other side. Molly knew he had an agile mouth and a nimble tongue from hearing him make all those deductions, but she had no idea that he could put it to such practical use. She was looking forward to the next section of the test. He let go of her wrists, and her hands immediately went to his hair, holding onto it as he moved his warm breath down the front of her dress. Was she going to combust? His long, elegant fingers found the hem of her knee-length yellow floral dress. He pushed the fabric up over her thighs and hips, exposing her flesh-colored underwear. He ran his hands over the fabric of the undergarment at Molly’s waist and hip bones, finally running the fingertips of one hand over the center to where her thighs came together. She shuddered at the contact! Well, he was getting an A+ so far!  
He lifted her hips to free her skirt from beneath her weight. He bent back over her, and scooped her into a sitting position with one scoop, kissing her passionately as he did. His hands explored her back and found the hook and zipper at the top of her dress. He sightlessly undid both, still unrelenting in his assault on her mouth. He pawed at the fabric of her dress that was bunched around her hips. He lifted it up over her head and threw it across the room, breaking contact with her lips for only a second. Her strapless bra matched her underpants, simple and single-toned tan that matched her skin almost perfectly. He planted kisses on her bare shoulders as he reached for that clasp in the back. Or at least, that’s where it should have been. The part of the garment covering her back was one smooth section of Spandex-like material. He was doing so well! He was sure of that! And now what! Halted by a ridiculous bit of underwear! How embarrassing! His kisses halted a bit in his confusion, and Molly began to giggle against his mouth. He backed away to see her face, and looked at her with his famous scrunched nose scowl. “It unhooks in the front, you prat!” “PRAT?!” he scoffed, “I’ll have you know—“she shut him up by sticking her tongue in his mouth. It was most effective. She laid down, pulling him back on top of her with her arms wrapped around him. He caught himself on the bed with both hands outstretched. He broke off from their kiss, moving his mouth down her neck and sternum to the newly found clasp in the front of her bra. He unhooked it and she arched her back just enough for him to comfortably pull it from underneath her and toss it to the opposite corner as her dress. He was fortunate to be so good at observation. He remembered, in perfect detail, what she had done to him and was able to repeat it on her making her moan and gasp in the same way that he did when it had been his turn. Once he had finished with her breasts, he moved his mouth and nose down her abdomen and over her navel. He ran his fingers along the waistband of her knickers, slipping them just under it, and slowly, torturously removed them with both hands.  
He wasn’t actually prepared for this section of the test. What was he supposed to do? Something with his hands? His mouth? But what? He knew the mechanics of intercourse. What went where and how, roughly for how long, and how to know when you were finished. But this foreplay business! None of John’s “research material” had been very clear on female gratification. What a bunch of idiots those “filmmakers” were! How were people supposed to learn!? He decided to just do what he knew. He applied the same principals of his earlier instruction, which, judging from the sounds Molly was making, were achieving their goal. Her fingers began to tighten in his hair, causing a moan to escape his mouth. He couldn’t fathom why the simple action she was performing gave him such pleasure, even taking into account the fact that the scalp is full of nerve endings, and he especially couldn’t grasp how it had taken him so long to discover this. Emboldened by Molly’s responses, Sherlock decided to put his exceptionally long fingers to use. It didn’t take long after the act of spontaneity for Molly to crash around him groaning his name. He scrambled back up her body, kissing her gently as she calmed down.  
“Well, professor, how am I doing so far?” he said, voice full of sarcasm. Molly breathed “Well, Mr. Holmes, you’ve aced the multiple choice sections of the exams, but everyone will tell you that essays are the trickiest!” she had to take the sentence in a few breaths, still coming down from her climax. “Oh I was widely praised for my linguistic abilities all through my youth and adolescence. I don’t think I’ll have a problem!” He hopped gracefully off the bed to remove his black silk pants that still left Molly awed. He had them halfway over his hips and stopped short! “Umm…uh…I don’t have…I don’t suppose you do. I mean, we don’t want any signs of three popping up in your, umm—“  
“Sherlock,” Molly interrupted, “check the right pocket of my dress. I’m nothing if not prepared!” he strode over to where her dress had landed and fiddled in the recommended pocket, mercifully finding the square foil packet. Upon the discovery of the prophylactic, he made what was almost unmistakably a “squeeeee!” and did a little victory dance of his own. He finished dispensing his boxers and offered the packet to Molly. “Er, would you mind? I’ve never…I don’t want to get it wrong…” Molly smiled kindly at the man who really was just a child on so many levels. She gently took the condom from his hand and unwrapped it. She rolled it down his considerable length, and whispered to him “Why don’t you let me take it from here, ace?” And she pulled her own ninja moves on him, and he was suddenly beneath her, breathless with nervous giggles.  
Yes, that is correct. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, bane of ill-doers and life-takers, was nervously giggling over being straddled by a girl. But this girl! This girl had something. She was special in every way and he didn’t know why it had taken him so long to see that. She was The Girl. The only girl that had really mattered to him, and the most important girl in the world right now. And, he thought, probably for a very long time to come!  
She bent over to kiss one of his severe cheekbones and whisper “Trust me?” He must have, because he nodded his consent to allow her to take over from here. She lowered herself onto him, gasping at how fully he filled her. She wasn’t expecting that despite having seen him already. She moved against his body slowly at first, gradually picking up speed as they went. He was the perfect match for her, and this pleased her on more than just the physical plane. She’d known they would make a great match if he’d only realized she existed, and now, he definitely did. She’d hoped that even Sherlock Holmes wasn’t THAT oblivious! She felt his breath quicken as he started to lose control. He tried to slow her by placing his perfect hands on her hips, which worked for a moment, but she couldn’t help but race on towards her release.  
He was lost in the sensation of her all around him and through him. To his soul. It was almost enough to make him believe in the God he’d basically renounced earlier in the day. Enough to call His name as well as hers. “Oh, God! Molly!” he felt her tighten and come apart again, this time on top of him, repeating his name like a chant. “Sherlock!” and hearing his name on her tongue brought him to his completion as well. Molly collapsed onto Sherlock’s chest. They shuddered around each other, holding each other as they rode out their aftershocks together. He breathlessly whispered, “So, this test…it’s going to be the first of many, I hope? In a long educational career? Granted I sort of phoned-in that essay, but I’ll be better prepared for the next one!” Molly giggled, “Sherlock Holmes, I am quite looking forward to educating you! You are a prodigy. You’re going places!” “Home with you, if I’m lucky!” How much luckier could he get? That is, if he believed in the ridiculous notion of luck. What was The Girl doing to him? His Girl…he welcomed the idea more than he’d ever thought possible!


End file.
